Skittles
by theskittlesparty
Summary: It baffles him a little. How can Stiles be so happy, here in this backwards country with only Scott and his own chatterbox thoughts for company, knowing they're but hours and days away from meeting another monster of the night, that they no longer have a place to call their own, that they haven't seen a full night's sleep in months, and that they're still lying to their parents?
1. A Brief History

Scott and Stiles grew up together in the south of England, in a little village nestled in the heart of Kent. The boys were thick as thieves from the off – Scott would listen when Stiles could do nothing but ramble incessantly, fidget continuously, so that the chatter in his head might dull a little, and Stiles was never without a spare inhaler for those moments when Scott simply couldn't breathe.

Scott's father was a bit useless, a bit drunk, a bit violent, and eventually left Scott and his mother, Melissa, when he was eight years old. Stiles, known as Rupert in those days, was a constant comfortable presence throughout all of the mess.

Melissa McCall was a long held friend of Stiles' mother, Sally Stilinski, whom fell seriously ill with a bout of pneumonia when the boys were nine. She never recovered entirely from the disease, and her weakened body was simply in no fit state to fight when cancer came calling two years down the line. The boys' roles reversed where Scott became the calming source through Stiles' ensuing anxiety troubles, and the following few months when whiskey was the only comfort for Detective Jonathan Stilinski before he came to the sober realisation that he was neglecting his boy, and determined never to touch a drop again.

Scott and Stiles spent up their youth trying to make as much mischief as humanly possible without getting caught with their hands in the cookie jar. That Stiles' father was a Senior Detective with the Kent Police, that Scott's mother was an Accident and Emergency Nurse at their local hospital, did little to dissuade them from their course of destruction. And if they ever did land themselves in hot water, they always had each other to nurse the wounds of their damaged pride. Life was ridiculously simple.

And then we bring them forward to eighteen years of age, and the boys take a camping trip across the pond to the Coachella Valley in California. Only days in to their summer long West Coast road trip, before University begins for them in the autumn, the boys become separated one warm night and Scott is attacked by something. When nothing comes of the bite, that heals rather more quickly than either of them would expect – particularly considering that they forwent proper medical treatment – when they find no other reports of mysterious animal attacks in the area, when they see no other sighting of the beastly thing, they conclude that it was only a mountain lion, ignoring all suggestions that it might possibly have been a wolf. After all, wolves haven't been spotted in California in over sixty years, so says Stiles' travel guide. The guide that Stiles throws away less than two weeks later, when Scott turns into some odd hybrid between man and wolf, and nearly eats him. Thankfully, Stiles is apparently better at climbing trees than a newly wolfed out Scott, and once the full moon dips back behind the mountains, when Stiles can walk off the night long cramps left from spending half a dozen hours up a tree, Stiles is otherwise unharmed and Scott is all human once again.

Following a four day long argument regarding the impossibility of fantastical beasts and mythical creatures, they eventually agree that Scott is now a werewolf.

By the end of the summer, when they are due to return to England, they've got Scott's more violent and animalistic tendencies down to a manageable level of what the fuck. However, it is obvious to the both of them that returning home is now a distant dream. They've changed, they're different now. Stiles knows that there is more to this world than he'd originally thought, and that simply cannot be ignored, and Scott has morphed into one hell of an athletic genius, and such skills need to be applied constructively.

They have a new purpose, in any event: finding the werewolf who turned Scott so they can ensure that this doesn't happen to another innocent fool.

Maybe they'll meet a few other monsters along the way.

Their parents receive letters in the post some days into September explaining that the boys are extending their trip, taking an entire year out before returning to school, and that they promise to keep in touch, and send all of their love.

No return address is provided.


	2. Act One

Scott watches Stiles, watches as he licks his lips, tonguing the cut that stopped bleeding a while ago. He wants to say something. Nothing is forthcoming. He wants to take him away. No one deserves this world they've found themselves.

They need a new one.

He plays with his wrists, thumbs pressing at the imaginary bruises that circle there, wonders where the others are, wonders if they've found their own freedom yet, wonders why he doesn't care. He misses them sometimes, though never would he tell Stiles. There is a fair amount he would never tell Stiles. Oh, he trusts the boy with his life; he doesn't trust the kid's emotions. The bugger's too sensitive for his own good.

Stiles shifts, leans forward to rest his head on the dashboard. Sometimes, his head is too heavy for words. He wonders whether, if he could only stop thinking, that maybe his head wouldn't droop the way it does so often these days. There are too many of them, too many thoughts. He cannot hear them all because they're jumping all over each other for his attention. He's deaf.

Scott cannot look away from him, cannot look at anything but the back of Stiles' head. Better than his face at the moment.

He seriously wants out of this. He aches all over, knows Stiles feels worse. This isn't their life. They're better than this.

And he's something of a romantic, believes the lines in fairytales, the ones that tell of happy ever afters. He wants to find theirs. After all, it's out there somewhere, he's sure of this.

"We could always run away, again. Alaska, maybe. We wouldn't need to go far. No one would ever find us."

Stiles lifts his head at Scott's words, pulls himself up slowly to rest deep into the passenger seat. Groans softly. Shakes his messy hair gently.

"Nah, you're okay, Scotty. Not today, anyway.

We'll be fine."

Scott sighs. The answer is always the same.

"I know. I know because I love you."

Stiles finally stops playing with his lip, stops moving at all.

"I love you, too, Scotty. Now stop with this dreamy sentimental nonsense and drive."

Scott hugs the steering wheel, facing forward, bored of staring at the bruises shadowing Stiles' bright eyes.

"Where to, Sir?"

He tips his cap, the one he isn't wearing.

"Anywhere. Home."

Home.

"Think we'll ever find it?"

Stiles looks at Scott, no nonsense. Scott always feels like a chastised toddler under that golden stare.

"We have it, you fool. We're home, you and me. That's all we need. Everything else is pancakes."

Pancakes.

"Hungry for a pit stop? I know this little cafe."

Stiles perks a little at that. They're both terrible gluttons.

"I want waffles."

Scott nods.

"I want a milkshake."

Stiles nods.

"I want strawberries and cream."

Scott cocks his head, silently agrees.

"I want a lobster."

They're wearing their best poker faces now. Game on.

"I want a Rolls Royce."

"I want a giraffe."

"I want snow."

"I want Atlantis."

"I want a carrot."

"I want pea soup."

"I want an umbrella."

"I want forever."

"I want you."

Scott is silent for a beat, rolls his eyes because Stiles isn't looking at him anymore, he's looking out of the window to his right. Scott wishes he wouldn't do that.

"Fuck off, you sod."

He can almost see Stiles grinning, not a common enough sight these last few months. He smiles himself, just a little bit.

"Fuck off yourself, prat."

Stiles licks Scott's cheek and turns to the window again. There's nothing to see but trees. Endless.

They could live in a forest, they could do that. Showers, though, they'd be a little tricky. Suppose they could bathe in a lake somewhere.

Maybe they should fuck off to Alaska.

"I want you, too.

I guess.

But only with pancakes."

Stiles wants to go wherever Scott does. He'll go to Alaska, if that's what Scott wants. They can be nomads together forever. He wants breakfast first, though.

"Fine, but I want waffles."

Stiles bites Scott's ear, nibbles his earlobe just a little, settles back in his seat. Scott brings the engine to life, he won't smile. He won't.

Stiles rests his bare feet, ankles crossed, up by the wing mirror. Scott pulls the jeep away from the curb, drives them down the country lane. He's pretty sure he remembers a café nearby. Somewhere. Either way, they'll be fine. And everything else is pancakes.

* * *

Despite the incredible mountain of waffles sat before him, covered so seductively in blueberry syrup, Stiles continuously steals bites of Scott's sweet lemon pancakes and Scott forgets to be mad at him even though Stiles had insisted that he didn't want pancakes. Stiles is wearing that cheeky smile, the one that reminds Scott of easier times, reminds him that there can still be easy times, in amongst all of the mess that has become their lives.

That might be his favourite thing about Stiles, that the kid can still be so damned carefree. Scott can't and he's not the one whose mind doesn't switch off, doesn't stop thinking even when the stars are high in the midnight sky. Actually, it baffles him a little. How can Stiles be so happy, here in this backwards country with only Scott and his own chatterbox thoughts for company, knowing they're but hours and days away from meeting another monster of the night, that they no longer have a place to call their own, that they haven't seen a full night's sleep in months, and that they're still lying to their parents?

Then again, Scott feels pretty happy in this moment here, sat across from his best friend, sharing breakfast in the early afternoon, lost together in this forgotten diner in this strange country in this dream world of childhood fantasies and adult nightmares.

Scott nods to himself because he feels content now, in this present time, the only time that can actually matter to them these days. Forgetting where they are for even a moment, after all, can be their very last moment.

He still grumbles when Stiles swipes a rather enormous slice of his last pancake.

The waitress comes over every once in a while to pour them more coffee and Scott smiles politely at her. He can see the powdery hint of old age creeping its way over her cheekbones, feels a little sad.

Everyone is ageing. Everyone is dying.

He's so fucking scared that Stiles will leave him one day, that he won't be enough to stop him, to save him. He'll be wild when that finally happens. He'll be the very thing they're trying to stop.

He can't bring himself to care.

Stiles subtly pulls Scott's plate closer to him, ignoring the sad and defeated hunger in his best friend's eyes because he's not quite the pig Scott thinks him to be, not quite. He lifts the biggest waffle, the one drenched so thoroughly in syrup it's now more soggy purple than crispy brown, from the stack on his own plate and lowers it onto Scott's. He considers the two plates for a moment, slides another waffle over to Scott's, and pushes the plate back to Scott's side of the booth.

He doesn't ignore the happy gleam in Scott's eyes, grins to himself because it is so easy. Being with Scott is so damned easy.

"You get much sleep last night, dude?"

Scott's going for casual. Stiles knows him better than that.

"I got enough, stop mothering me. Prat."

He's smiling, always smiles when Scott does his concerned parent routine. He knows Scott has never viewed him as weak, never will, and it's enough for him to allow Scott his protective nature. The kid thinks of himself as a hero, and maybe so does Stiles, just a little.

Stiles looks out the window, looks at the greenery, looks at their jeep, looks at the invisible brick road their chasing, feels exhausted, feels a little bored. He wants this new life about as much as Scott does.

"When will we reach the Redwoods? Seriously, if this is our lives now we might as well see some of what we came here for, right dude?"

They have agreed that, despite having a self imposed mission to carry out, they don't need to lay all of their travelling plans to rest. Driving is the next best form of transport to running on foot when following a scent, and it would just be silly not to partake in a few popular tourist endeavours along the way.

"We've not even passed through Santa Barbara yet. I thought you were more interested in the Californian surf than the greenery. Why I could never guess, since the waves of Cornwall you're used to hardly compare to the swell of the Sunshine State. You and your little English surfboard will be swallowed whole. And don't expect me to save your ass when that happens."

"Oh, because I've never saved your furry ass before? I managed just fine back in San Diego and Orange County, as you saw for yourself."

"I saw you swallowing an awful lot of sea water. Now I don't claim to know much about surfing, kid, but I'm pretty certain you're supposed to be standing on top of the board, not flailing underneath it."

"Dude. Low blow."

"Dude. Sue me."

They fall silent. Stiles is looking gormless, his favourite expression, and Scott is trying admirably not to laugh at him. Stiles looks so wounded, though.

Resistance is futile.

They both know Stiles isn't the athletic type. Neither of them had been back in England, what with Scott's asthma and Stiles' complete lack of coordination. They had both made it onto the lacrosse team at school, it's true, but that hardly counted since Mr Finstock, their coach, was possibly even more useless at anything sport related than they were.

Scott pauses his laughter briefly to consider how he'd fare on the lacrosse field nowadays.

"What if we lose the scent, Stiles? What then?"

"We carry on fighting beasties and admiring the beautiful American scenery, that's what."

"And that's enough for you?"

"You're enough for me, dude."

"Fuck, Stiles. I'm not so sure I can return the sentiment."

Stiles leans over their empty plates, to gain better leverage, and smacks Scott on the back of the head. Scott only smirks in response.

Stiles snorts, and then he sighs, low and heavy.

"We'll find him, Scott. I can feel it in my bones. He'll get his comeuppance, you mark my words."

"He might be a she you know."

"You got your ass handed to you by a girl? Dude."

"I'd like to see you take her on. Seriously, imagine Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore's future daughter."

Stiles shudders.

"Huh. Guess we should hope it's a bloke then."

They drain the final dregs of their coffees, silently agreeing to jump back on the road. Time is ticking.

Scott pays the bill, smiles charmingly at the waitress, who looks a little disappointed to have her only customers leaving. She must get lonely. Scott hopes she has a family to go home to; everybody needs a family, whatever shape it comes in. He doesn't know where he'd be without his family.

Scott yelps when Stiles kicks his shin, simply because, kicks back harder because he still forgets sometimes that Stiles bruises, and he doesn't. Stiles never cares, wears his scars like battle honours, teases Scott that he's the real superhero because he's the only one with proof. Scott silently agrees.

* * *

They're back on the road, the diner less appealing now that their bellies are sated. Stiles is obviously growing restless, bored, because he keeps swinging the jeep from side to side along each long patch of endless straight road. Scott's father used to do that when he was little, yelling 'Rollercoaster!' as Scott's small frame was hurtled from one side of the back seat to the other. Scott would howl with laughter, drowning out his mother's half hearted and plainly amused grumbling.

He misses his mother, hopes she's not missing him.

Scott looks at his family, watches him bounce around in his seat as he throws the jeep into each bend of the road. Stiles is almost vibrating with energy, clearly amped and ready for round two with the beasties. Scott would rather they find a motel. They have enough fake credit cards to last them through winter, thanks to Danny, plus it will be dark again in a few hours and he wants to wait for Stiles' latest battle wounds to heal before they begin hunting again.

And what?

They're officially calling themselves hunters now?

According to Scott's head, that's a yes. A terrifying and altogether far too real yes that ought to be a no because what is his life? When did they make this silent decision? Did they? Or is Scott jumping the gun, again?

He wants to ask Stiles. He won't, because then this whole thing will be acknowledged with words and neither of them is ready for that. He also doesn't want to hear Stiles agree to this new way of life. He doesn't want this to be their lives.

He doesn't want Stiles to have battle wounds that need healing.

Their last was a true horror, though, and even if the world is blissfully ignorant to the supernatural beings that hide in its shadows, Stiles and he no longer are, and Scott feels compelled to protect it. He is a monster himself. He knows exactly what the world is up against.

"I'm knackered. Let's find somewhere to fall asleep, yeah?"

He's not. He feels more awake then ever after their feast, feels a little buzzed. They should probably stop eating so many sugary things. Both have an awful sweet tooth, though, and neither care about dentist's warnings.

"Seriously? You want to go to bed now? Scotty, you need to work on that werewolf stamina. Not even the sun is sleeping yet."

Stiles knows. Stiles knows that Scott feels guilty, feels responsible, feels the monster he's so terrified he'll become. Scott isn't littered with bruises.

Stiles hates himself sometimes. Hates how much he'll give Scott whatever he wants. Hates how he'll never understand himself the way he does Scott.

He gives a great sigh because no matter where he is he always enjoys being dramatic.

"I've a little research I'm behind on, I suppose. We could stop for the night. Only if there's a wifi connection, though."

"That's as good as I can hope for, huh?"

"You bet, Scotty."

They don't know where they are. Don't know where they're going. Scott's fairly certain they're heading north only Stiles is following roads, not signs, and America is so big compared to England. No one seems to live here. One ghost town after another.

Winter will be fun.

Scott fiddles with the volume of the radio for something to do. He knows it's a rather exasperating habit of his and anyone but Stiles would slap him silly. He just needs to keep his fingers, his hands, busy. The more he fidgets, the less awareness he has of Stiles' gormless fish impression. Obviously the boy wants to say something, something he imagines he won't appreciate.

"You know, Alaska is probably filled to the brim with them."

Stiles doesn't want to look at Scott, to see his face as he realises they have no escape. This is it for them.

"That's okay, though, Scotty. I mean, someone has to be the hero, right?"

Oh.

So they are going to use their words for this. Scott was hoping they could tiptoe around this forever.

"Stiles, kid. We're not. We shouldn't have to save the world. That was never supposed to be our responsibility."

He wants to, wants to be the hero. He's selfish, though. He'd rather keep Stiles than have the world at peace. And Stiles is so damned fragile.

"Who will if we don't? No one else knows what we do. Can you ignore this because I can't?"

They're definitely talking about this.

Fuck.

"Stiles. I want."

He ruffles his hair, shakes his head, bites his wrist.

"I'm scared, kid."

"You won't lose me. I'm tenacious. I'm so tenacious it would take everything you have and then some to misplace me for a moment. I'm glued to you, whether you like it or not. We're in this together, dude."

Scott thinks he might be a girl. He's trying desperately not to cry. He wants Stiles to see what he sees. Only one of them is close to immortal.

Stiles glances over at him, glances again. The jeep slows to a steady crawl.

"Fuck, Scotty. You're not bulletproof either. I could lose you as easily."

Where is a damned motel in this forgotten wilderness? This isn't something he wants to chat casually about, banter over. He wants nothing to do with it but if they're going to acknowledge anything they'll have an actual sit down conversation to discuss it. Maybe with beer, maybe drunk, definitely face to face.

They can't be serious, can't be honest, in a car.

Stiles settles his hand on Scott's knee, loose and easy.

Warmth.

Scott doesn't think he's ever felt so calm.

"Why are we still here, Stiles? Why haven't I shipped you back to safety yet?"

"You're my best friend."

Maybe there will never be an answer. That's okay. And even if he does choke on air with every unexpected noise, every hurried movement, every whisper of the heated wind, he has his best friend. He has more than he ever imagined he could. They should stop questioning everything and just be. They're young. They're allowed to have fun whilst saving the world's innocence.

Stiles parks the car outside a beachside motel just as the sun is kissing the moon goodnight. They take a room. Scott slips a sleeping pill in Stiles' apple juice.

And that's them for another day.


End file.
